The Witness (31 page)

He noted the night had taken some of the shine off Justin’s gold and bronzed prince-of-the-city looks. Good, Brooks thought, looking into the cocky, bloodshot eyes.

“Were you read your rights, Justin?”

“Yeah. I’ve got the right to say fuck you.”

“Justin,” Harry warned.

“Freedom of speech.”

“I’ll exercise that same right. You want to look at these, counselor.” Brooks poured the photos on the table as he sat.

As Harry studied them, Brooks studied the boy.

Justin Blake, the only child of Lincoln and Genny Blake, had been born into money, prestige and good looks. Chiseled features, sulky mouth, sizzling blue eyes and thick sun-kissed hair likely ensured he’d had his pick of girls through his high school years.

He might have made something of himself, Brooks considered—maybe he still would—but up to this point the money, prestige and good looks had translated into arrogance, a mean temperament and a vicious disrespect for any kind of authority.

“Justin Blake, you’re charged with destruction of property, vandalism, underage drinking and three counts of assault.”

“Big fucking deal.”

“Oh, it will be. As will the possession charges. We have the weed, the coke and the Oxy you and your fellow morons had in the suite.”

Justin only smirked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We’ve got your prints on file already. I’ll just bet we’re going to find them on that bag of weed, the bag of blow, maybe even on the pills. You’re on probation, and one of the terms of that probation is no drugs, no drinking, no trouble. You did the hat trick.”

“My father’ll have me out of here in an hour. If Harry wants to earn his big, fat fee, he’ll have the rest fixed before morning.”

“No, and no. Not this time. Russell Conroy has just officially pressed charges. My deputies have interviewed witnesses. We have, as you can see, photo documentation of the havoc you wreaked. We have the drugs, the alcohol and shortly we’ll be picking up the girls you entertained last night. I just think it would be icing on the cake if any one of them happens to be under the age of eighteen, ’cause then I get to add statutory rape and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. But even without
the icing, you’re not getting probation, counseling and community service this time. You’ll do some time.”

Justin lifted his middle finger. “An hour.”

“In violation of your probation, and look at the time! It’s after eight o’clock. Too late for a bail hearing tonight. You’ll be a guest of our fine facilities until ten tomorrow morning, at which time we’ll go before the judge and lay it all out.”

“Bullshit.”

“Chief Gleason,” Harry began, “my client’s parents are respected members of the community. I believe we can safely release Justin into their supervision for one night.”

Brooks leveled one look, hard as granite. “That’s not going to happen. He stays. I may not be able to stop the judge from granting bail tomorrow, but until then he’s mine.”

“You’re nothing. You’re just some glorified rent-a-cop trying to swing his dick around. My father could buy and sell you a dozen times out of fucking petty cash. You can’t do anything to me.”

“It’d be a shame if you thought of your own worth by your father’s bank account—if I gave a rat’s ass about your twisted inner child. What I can do to you is this. I can arrest you and charge you, which is already done. I can incarcerate you until such time a judge tells me different. I can—and believe me, I will—testify at your trial, should you choose to take this to trial, and detail every bit of your vicious, useless, destructive behavior.”

“I’d like another moment alone with my client.”

“You’ve had over a half-hour with him already.”

“Brooks, I need a moment with my client.”

“All right, then. When you’re done, he’s going in a cell.”

Brooks stepped out. It took less than ten seconds for the screaming to start. He knew it was small of him, and likely unprofessional on top of that, but damn if it didn’t do his heart good to hear Justin throw a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old brat.

I
N THE QUIET HOUSE WITH THE DOG SNORING AT HER FEET
, Abigail scanned the hacked FBI files. It pleased her that Special Agent Elyse Garrison had pursued the lead she’d leaked to her, built on it. The five-point-six million the FBI’s operation had confiscated equaled a nice, solid chunk, enough to sting, in Abigail’s opinion. As would the six arrests.

It was hardly enough to put the Volkovs out of business, but it would annoy them and drive them to dig deeper into their organization, trying to find the source of the leaks.

Satisfied, she closed the files, told herself she should go to bed. It was nearly midnight, and she’d contracted two new jobs that week. She needed to be fresh to begin work in the morning.

But she wasn’t tired. What she was, Abigail admitted, was restless. And what she was doing, under the cover of work and research, was waiting for her phone to ring.

How many times, she wondered, had she read a book or watched a movie where she’d been baffled by a woman waiting for a man to call?
It seemed to her women who did so not only lacked a sense of self-esteem but were simply foolish.

Now she could only be baffled at herself.

She didn’t like the sensation she experienced, this combination of nerves and anxiety. Faint, yes, but
there.

She didn’t even want this relationship, she reminded herself, and she certainly didn’t want this uncomfortable and unattractive position she found herself in now.

She didn’t require phone calls or dinner companionship or conversations … or any of it. All of those things interfered with her routine, upset her schedule, and, more important, could only lead to complications she couldn’t risk.

Still, she had to admit it was nice to have those things, and to forget—even for minutes at a time—and simply
be
Abigail.

The Abigail he was attracted to, enjoyed being with.

But wasn’t that falling into the same trap she’d sprung on herself years before? Convincing herself she could be what she wasn’t, have what she couldn’t?

It was good, better—no, best—he hadn’t called. She could begin immediately readjusting herself, her life back to what it had been before he’d changed it.

She’d make herself some herbal tea. She’d take it upstairs and read herself to sleep. That was sensible. That was who she was.

When she rose, the dog came awake instantly. He followed her into the kitchen and, when he saw her fill the kettle with water, sat to wait.

A good dog, she thought, as she set the kettle on the stove, a comfortable, well-secured house and satisfying work. Those were the only things she required to be content, and contentment was all she required.

And yet when her alarm signaled, she didn’t feel her usual click of tension and readiness. Instead, she felt a quick surge of hope. Annoyed by it, she turned to her monitor to watch Brooks drive toward the house.

He presumed too much, she decided, coming to her door after midnight. She wished now she’d turned off the lights, gone to bed. If she had, at least he wouldn’t have any reason to think she’d waited for him.

She’d tell him she was on her way to bed and too tired for company. Simple, and again sensible, she thought, as she went to the door.

She opened it as he got out of the car, and in the glare of her security lights saw in his face, in his movements, layers of exhaustion, anger, sadness.

“Sorry.” He stood for a moment at the base of the porch steps, bathed in that bright light. “I should’ve called earlier. I should’ve gone on home.”

“You didn’t.”

“No. Things got complicated.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “And I was here before I thought about how late it is. You’re still up.”

“Yes.” Her resolve thinned and tore as she studied his face. “I was making tea. Do you want tea?”

“Sounds good.” He came up the stairs. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I’d be this long.”

“You have work. I’ve been working, too.”

Saying nothing, he put his arms around her, pressed his face to her hair. Not for pleasure, she realized. It took her a moment to decipher the tenor of the embrace. He sought comfort. He’d come to her for comfort, and no one ever had.

She started to pat his back—there, there—but stopped. And closing her eyes, she tried to imagine what she’d want. She rubbed his back instead, small, light circles, until she heard him sigh.

“The kettle’s boiling,” she told him, when she heard it whistle.

“Yeah.” But he held on for another moment before he stepped back.

“You should come in. I need to lock the door.”

“I’ll get it.”

“No, I …” Wouldn’t feel fully safe if she didn’t lock up herself.

“Okay. I’ll get the kettle.”

When she’d finished, she found him pouring hot water into the squat teapot where she’d already measured out leaves.

“Lemon balm, right? My mother does the same thing some nights.”

“It’s relaxing.”

“I could use some relaxing.”

She got out a second cup, saucer. “Is your friend all right?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” Instantly shamed of her earlier annoyance, she turned. “He was hurt?”

“Not physically other than a fist to the face, but he’s had that before. He’s likely to again.”

In silence, she arranged the cups, the pot, the sugar bowl and spoons on the table. “You should sit down. You look very tired. We’ll have to share the tea strainer when it’s steeped. I only have one.”

“That’s fine.”

Unsure, she remained standing when he sat down. “Do you want food? I have the lasagna. It can be heated.”

“No. No, but thanks.”

“You’re so sad,” she blurted out.

“I guess that’s some of it. Got a lot of pissed off in there, too. I’ve got to shake both off before I deal with tomorrow.”

“Do you want to tell me, or should I change the subject?”

He smiled a little. “You should sit down, Abigail, and have your tea.”

“I don’t know if I’m good at this,” she said, as she sat.

“Drinking tea?”

“Comforting. Or defusing. Since you’re angry and sad, it should be both.”

He laid a hand over hers briefly, then poured out the tea. “Let’s find out. Russ’s family’s owned the hotel for three generations now. It’s not just a business, not just a livelihood, to them.”

“It’s an essential part of their family history, and their place in the community.”

“Yeah. There’s pride and love there. Justin Blake, have you heard of the Blakes?”

“Yes. They’re a very wealthy and influential local family.”

“Justin’s a spoiled, troublemaking fuckwit with a string of DUIs, a bad attitude. He’d have a sheet as long as my leg if his father didn’t use that money or influence, or political pressure—whatever works—to get him off. The kid has no respect for the law or any other damn thing.”

“It would be difficult to develop one if he’s allowed to behave badly with impunity. I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “I’m supposed to listen.”

“There’s no supposed. Anyway, his latest. He and a couple of the assholes he hangs with booked the best suite at the hotel and trashed it. Destroyed it.”

“Why?”

“For kicks, out of boredom, because they could. Pick one.” Brooks shrugged, then scrubbed his hands over his face. “Russ went up this evening to deal with them when guests complained about the noise. Upshot is Justin punched him, took some swings at security, got himself arrested. And this time he won’t slide through. It’s looking like better than a hundred thousand in damages. Maybe more.”

“That’s a great deal.”

“Yeah, it is, and Russ and his parents won’t cave when Lincoln Blake pushes at them. I had a go-round with him and the kid tonight.”

“You won’t cave, either.”

“No, I won’t. Justin and his pals are spending the night in jail. They’ll make bail tomorrow, Blake will see to it. But Justin’s got two choices. He takes a plea and does time, or he stands trial and does time, but he goes down this time. And either way the Blakes pay every cent of the damages. Jesus, I’m pissed off.”

He shoved up, stalked to the window. “I should’ve gone home.”

“You wouldn’t be pissed off at home?”

“No, I’d be pissed off anywhere. That fat, self-satisfied, cigar-smoking fuckhead figures he can threaten me with my job, and I’ll scare off?”

“The father?”

“Yeah, the father.”

“Can he have you fired?”

“If he can, they can shove the job. I don’t want it if I can’t fucking do it. Not if some overprivileged asshole can do whatever the hell he wants and I’m supposed to look the other way.”

“Money is power,” Abigail said quietly, “but it’s not the only power.”

“I guess we’ll see. I went over to talk to Russ’s parents, and Russ and Seline—his wife—after I dealt with the lawyer. She cried. Mrs. Conroy. This sweet, funny woman who always had peanut butter cookies in the jar, just broke down and cried. I should’ve found a way to put that little bastard away before it went this far.”

“It’s useless to blame yourself for what this person did, or what his father has been able to do, especially when the pattern was set long before you took the position as chief of police. The rational thing to do is arrest him, which you have, and to compile evidence for the prosecutor to assist in getting a guilty verdict at trial. That wasn’t sympathetic,” she realized.

Brooks sat back down, picked up his tea. “Worked pretty well, though. I know the logic of it, Abigail.”

“But your friend and his family have been hurt. It’s emotional as well as financial and physical and criminal. People should pay for their actions. There should be consequences. There should be justice.”

Her hand balled into a fist on the table for a moment before she ordered herself to relax it. “It’s hard not to feel sad and angry and even hopeless when bad things happen, because fear and influence and money often outweigh justice.”

He leaned forward, laid a hand over hers. “Who hurt you?”

She shook her head, said nothing.

“Not yet, then.”

“What will you do tomorrow?”